


Of Plans, Nail Polish, and Romance

by TheReluctantShipper



Series: Pet Wizard [6]
Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bob the Skull POV, Charity Being Surprisingly Chill, Harry Being Confused, Harry Dresden Vs. Feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReluctantShipper/pseuds/TheReluctantShipper
Summary: I'd had a plan. It was agoodplan.Or, it sounded good when Susan and I were both several of Mac’s ales deep, pseudo-whispering like schoolgirls in the dim candlelight of my apartment, anyway.





	Of Plans, Nail Polish, and Romance

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is (obviously) a work of fanfiction. I don't own anything but the original characters. I don't claim ownership over the characters or storyline of The Dresden Files, no matter how grateful I am for them, which is hella.
> 
> \- Thanks to the Sister Husbands, who are my best friends in the whole world, and happen to be gracious enough to also beta most of my works for me. I don't know what I'd do without you girls, but I certainly wouldn't be doing this.
> 
> \- You can come see me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thereluctantshipper) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/TheReluctantSh1?s=09) if me sharing fan edits and bitching about writer's block floats your boat.
> 
> \- I come by any mistakes here honestly, but feel free to point them out so I can correct them.
> 
> \- Feedback is life.
> 
> \- Also, I don't love it when authors do this, but if you're new here, it may genuinely make more sense if you read the rest of the series first.

Look, I’d had a plan. It was even a _ good _ plan.

Or, it sounded good when Susan and I were both several of Mac’s ales deep, pseudo-whispering like schoolgirls in the dim candlelight of my apartment, anyway.

The plan was to seduce Marcone. Once we’d slept together, the mystery and intrigue would be gone, and I’d be rid of this _ fixation _ I’d had with the man since the ThreeEye situation (or, in my honest moments, since I’d met him). The sex would probably be subpar (“He’s too contained to lose control enough for good sex,” Susan had assured me, the slur in her words making them no less certain), and I’d stop obsessing over his eyes on mine, or the way his surprisingly calloused hands would feel on my skin. I’d be able to have a professional relationship with the man without feeling like we were dancing around one another and I didn’t know the steps.

It should have worked. Susan is one smart cookie, not to mention more experienced with this sort of thing. I’m a _ wizard, _ plans are kind of our _ thing. _ It should have _ worked. _

It didn’t.

Instead, just like every other part of my messed up, cobbled-together life, John came in like a green-eyed tornado and left every part of me twisted up and confused.

Instead of being overbearing or controlling, he’d let me make my way to him. Hell’s bells, he’d even seemed like he was _ surprised _ when I lost patience for waiting and climbed into his lap. Which is ridiculous, I’m the better part of seven feet tall, _ no one _ is surprised by me.

And once we got to the bedroom, he _ smoldered. _ All of his hard edges, his impenetrable walls, softened and crumbled. He was still a bastard, but he went out of his way to avoid hurting me, took care of me in every way, and his green eyes were molten and expressive. He never took them off of me.

He was tender where I expected him to be harsh, thoughtful where I expected him to be dismissive, and wildly intent where I’d expected him to be cool, distant.

The plan _ failed. _ The plan failed _ hard. _

I was reflecting on my failure _ (hard, epic _ failure) as I stood in the hallway of my apartment building. I was staring down at a beautiful, heavy envelope that I’d already torn open. Inside, an equally lovely card, the paper thick and heavy in a way that just _ screamed _ “expensive,” had an address, time, and date on it, and I scowled.

_ Is this a rich person booty call? _

* * *

I could have told Harry that the “plan” he and Susan concocted (and why was he concocting plans with that lovely creature when he could have been concocting _ her? _ It’s like I’d taught him nothing) wasn’t going to work. Not that it wasn’t a good one! I’m a big supporter of fucking someone out of your system. It’s how I got through the thirteenth century, you know. Her name was Derra, she was a delightfully dark slip of a thing, Greek if I’m not mistaken (and I’m not). She was a lovely girl, and the way she filled out a dressing robe will always-

Ahem. I digress.

It’s not that it was a bad plan. It frequently stars in my favorite novels. It could have worked.

For someone who wasn’t Harry Dresden. 

See, the boss doesn’t want to admit it, but I’ve been with him for a very long time, and Harry has _ very _ few secrets from me.

The boss is, in his heart of hearts, a romantic. Oh, he’s had his flings, but never a one night stand (what a waste). Even when he was dirt poor, living in his car, and _ knew _ it wasn’t going to last, he’s always done his best to treat his partners very well. Dinners (bought or stolen), little gifts (usually stolen), whatever magic he could manage and would fly under the radar.

So casual sex with his sexy mob king was never going to work. Boss doesn’t _ do _ casual sex. In fact, I've only ever seen him look at one other person like he looks at Marcone, and that was Elaine.

Funny, that.

* * *

I expected a penthouse.

In my defense, Marcone was always in luxury cars, designer suits, and office suites that made me feel scruffy just by looking at him. He oozes money in a weirdly careless way for someone who, according to all reports, didn’t grow up with it. I was expecting a penthouse, a suite, _ something. _

Instead, the address took me to an impressively normal-looking ranch-style house in the middle of a _ suburb, _ of all things. The lawn was mown, and there were neat flower boxes on the windows. It was a little surreal.

I parked the Beetle, feeling more conspicuous than even _ I _ was used to when the door whined as I swung it shut. I’d left my duster at home, so I was wearing a windbreaker, a white t-shirt, and jeans. I felt like a dweeb, which wasn’t an _ alien _ feeling, necessarily, but it was stronger than normal. I was wrong-footed and unsure. What the hell was this?

I was a wizard, though, and still pretty unwilling to show fear in front of Marcone. So I walked up the neatly kept sidewalk and knocked on the front door before I could lose my nerve.

_ Stars and stones, that’s a Neighborhood Watch sticker in the window. _ Honestly, weirdest day ever.

The door opened, and my brain stalled harder than the Beetle in January. Here was _ John, _ not Marcone, looking handsome and warm in a dark grey sweater and black jeans. The clothes were probably still expensive as hell, but they were remarkably… Homey. His feet were bare against the hardwood floors.

His eyes were warm again, too, expressive and wrinkling attractively at the corners when he smiled.

“Harry, you came.”

The surprise and genuine pleasure in his voice made something in my chest thud and twist and release. Somehow I found myself smiling back easily, if still a little reserved.

“Hiya, John.”

* * *

It should have worked. Marcone was a manipulative, scheming, heavy-handed, overbearing bastard.

If John wasn’t so inviting, surprisingly thoughtful, interesting, and an absolute _ beast _ in bed, it probably would have.

* * *

A trend was born. I would find a card in my mailbox with the address of one of John’s safehouses (he tended to take me to the houses with little to no electronics), along with a date and time. I’d go. John and I would spend the night talking, cooking, or fucking. I woke up alone more often than not, but he was around enough that I knew how he took his coffee (black with just a bit of sweetener, a splash of milk if he was feeling indulgent or if I’d been particularly _ obedient _ the night before).

We still worked together. That _ was _ with Marcone, but it started to get easier to see John, _ my _ John, underneath. I never drew attention to it, obviously, I knew very well the benefit of having a mask on.

We weren’t spending all of our time together by any means, but it was a pretty significant chunk. It was… Nice.

I was also completely, utterly confused.

* * *

What was going on? Hell’s bells, I just wanted to sleep with the man, and now we were…

I was frighteningly wrapped up in John. We worked together and were rather making a name for ourselves in both the vanilla and the magical worlds because of it. If I wasn’t at home studying or out running through increasingly difficult and complex drills with Bob, there was a good chance I was with John. My free time, which used to be all about reading, the occasional drive-in movie (it put me far enough away from the projector, usually), or even more magic research, was now at least half dedicated to a mob boss.

A sexy mob boss who made an incredible lasagna and somehow knew how to suck my brain out through my dick, but still.

The number of people I could talk to about my “what the hell am I doing” conundrum were _ few, _ to be polite about it. Murphy was out, obviously. Susan had gotten herself benched by getting me into this mess, drunk or not. I would rather chew my left leg off at the knee than discuss my love life (and the phrase made me want to hide under a rock for the rest of my very long life) with Bob. Mort would cut all ties with me if I tried.

_ Who the hell do I know who likes me enough to help _ and _ knows what they’re talking about? _

* * *

The thing about Michael Carpenter, I thought cheerfully as I trotted up his immaculate driveway, was that maybe we weren’t actually the kind of friends who asked one another for relationship advice, but Michael would be too nice to turn me away. _ And _ he was the only married person I knew.

Was it shitty to take advantage of Michael's innate goodness? Yeah, probably, but desperate times and all that. And wasn’t he going to get some sort of heavenly extra credit for helping someone in need? I was almost doing the guy a _ favor. _

Yeah, I didn’t believe me, either, but I was _ really _ desperate.

I’d have to keep some stuff back. Michael was great, but I knew he was a real believer when it came to his faith. I’d had enough “loving Christians” beat the tar out of me once they realized I wouldn’t be converted, either from magic or being bi, to be wary of it. So, no mentioning that my problem was of the masculine persuasion.

That, at least, would make it easier to keep quiet about _ who, _ precisely, I was having this problem with. No matter Marcone’s equipment down below, Michael would _ definitely _ have an issue with Marcone’s profession.

_ Hey, buddy. I can’t tell you anything about this person, but I think I may have fallen ass-backward into some sort of pesudo-relationship. Help. _

Yeah. I had this.

I was finally starting to doubt the intelligence of my current plan when the door swung open. There, haloed in the warm light that always seemed to glow in the Carpenter household, was Charity.

Charity was kind of a mystery to me. All mothers, really. I don’t mean that in a sad way, I’ve just never in my life been close to anyone maternal. Nurturers mystify and sort of scare the bejeesus out of me, and Charity was nurturing as hell.

She’d carried three of Michael’s blonde, giant, righteous babies so far, and showed no signs of stopping or complaining. She’d also, as far as I knew, never spoken a word against Michael being a Knight. Which would have been like complaining about Jesus being the messiah, but still.

Faced with Charity instead of Michael toppled the last of my resolve. I’d figure out whatever was going on with John on my own. Somehow.

Charity raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Dresden.”

“Hiya, Charity. Sorry, I was looking for Michael, but-”

“He took the kids out to a movie,” Charity said briskly. “What do you need?”

“Uh, I’m actually-” At her cocked eyebrow, I’m not ashamed to say that I folded like wet cardboard. What? Maternal women frighten me.

“I, uh. I’m seeing this _ person, _ I guess? I don’t actually know. That’s what I’m here for. Michael is the only person I know who doesn’t have a tragic love life.”

“You were hoping for advice?”

I shrugged. “Or for some of his luck to rub off on me. Whichever works.”

She looked at me seriously for a few seconds, then nodded and took a step back.

“Come in.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“Michael took the kids so I could unwind and have some me-time with a girlfriend. She had to cancel last-minute, though. I was going to get wine-tipsy and paint my toenails by myself anyway, but you need girl-talk and I need someone who can pull off Midnight Violet. You have the added benefit of being able to reach the cookies Michael hides on the top shelf.”

It was more words than Charity had ever said to me out loud. I’d always gotten the impression that my attitude, my openness about magic, and my general scruffiness disappointed her somehow. She sent food, but she fed lots of people who couldn’t feed themselves, what was one more?

I stared at her in shock. “I, uh, well, I just-”

“In the house, Dresden.”

Bob the skull, again, did not raise an idiot.

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

“Okay, you slept together, more than once. You eat dinner together, you _ cook _ together, and you stay for breakfast when both of you can?”

I very carefully painted another coat of Fire Engine Red on the toes of Charity’s left foot. “When you put it like that, it sounds so _ simple.” _

Charity had been _ shockingly _ helpful. We’d turned off the television (for obvious reasons), lit a bunch of candles, busted out a bottle of wine and several bottles of nail polish, and set to talking. After her second glass, she’d loosened up a little, relaxed her “strict Christian mom” thing. Oh, she was still Christian, and she gave me the stink eye for the premarital sexy times, but she was a little more rumpled, a little more approachable.

She snorted (another new quirk, I blamed the wine). “It _ is _ simple. You’re in a relationship, idiot.”

Only because I have nerves of steel, honed by long years of grueling training in the magical arts, did I not jerk in surprise and get nail polish all over both of us. I scowled up at her, but Charity Carpenter didn’t succumb to intimidation easily.

“I am _ not.” _

Her face softened, which was about a hundred times worse. I’d take judgemental and snippy over genuine kindness.

It was possible that I was a little tipsy, too.

“Harry,” she said firmly. “You’re confused because I doubt you’ve ever been in one. You-”

“I work for them,” I blurted.

Charity stared blankly. “You-”

“Look, I know. This person has money all over the place, security twenty-four-seven, and power like you wouldn’t _ believe. _ Not, I mean, they’re not magic, not like me, but political power. Brute force, maybe? I-”

“Are you being bought?”

_ Okay, _ apparently being mostly drunk didn't actually eliminate Charity’s habit of cutting straight through to the heart of the matter. Stars and stones.

I scowled again. “Hell’s bells, woman, _ no. _ My pay hasn’t changed, and we still argue like we always have. This is completely separate. It’s like we’ve never seen each other naked when we’re working.”

Unless I followed an order. When I was obedient (not often, believe me), Marcone’s eyes would burn, searing me even as we bickered. It made my skin feel shuddery and too tight.

But I wasn’t going to tell _ Charity _ that.

She fell quiet for a moment, and I blew gently to get the paint to dry faster. My own nails, toes and fingers, were painted a violet so dark it was almost black. I had no idea what Charity was doing with it, but I found myself liking it.

“Very wizardly,” Charity had said with authority.

Actually, this whole thing was kind of nice. Relaxing. The house was warded already, so I didn’t have to keep my guard up. It was just the two of us, so I could talk as loudly as I needed to stop feeling so unravelled. The wine was good, the candlelight was warm and bright and flickering, and the company was surprisingly fulfilling.

Now I just needed to know what the hell I was supposed to do, and it wouldn’t be a wasted evening.

“Then what’s the issue?” Charity asked.

“I just-”

“Harry,” she interrupted, “do you like them?”

I blinked rapidly. “Huh?”

“This person you’re seeing. Do you _ like _ them?”

Hell, _ did _ I?

I couldn’t deny that I liked John. He was fierce, had a dry sense of humor that killed me, was an incredible cook. He was thoughtful and surprisingly kind. When we were together, every iota of his considerable attention was focused on me, which was heady and more flattering than I wanted to admit.

Marcone, though. Did I like Marcone? He was ruthless, effortlessly violent, and could be pretty damn cold when the situation demanded it. He was a _ mob boss, _ his hand in every organized crime pie in the city and beyond. He owned more than one politician and was perfectly comfortable treating other people like Chinese checkers pieces.

He did, however, make a difference.

Crime was going to happen, it just was. It was everywhere, a universal human language, and it would get worse and worse if it remained unchecked. Marcone, he was that check.

Maybe it was more organized when he was in charge, but petty crimes had gone down significantly when he’d taken hold. Less innocent lives were lost or altered, and no children at all were involved or targeted. He wasn’t a _ good _ guy in any shape or form, but the streets were undoubtedly safer. 

A part of me would have _ loved _ to stick by my convictions. To stand on my soapbox and declare John Marcone a criminal, a scumbag who had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. That part, however, wasn’t the parts of me that had gotten me through the battle with Justin, the resulting sprint across the country, or homelessness. No, burning practicality did that, and that practicality liked Marcone just fine. 

Sure, maybe he wasn’t a saint, but he took care of me. I had an apartment, clothes on my back, food in the icebox. I was a part of something. Something dark, maybe, something that wasn’t virtuous, but I was no longer adrift in a city that didn’t always love me like I loved her.

Marcone took me in. John was amazing, and I liked him more than I wanted to admit, but Marcone was the one who ruthlessly and without real emotion attached to it looked at me and decided I was worth something.

“Yeah,” I croaked. “I do, I like them.”

Charity shrugged. “I’m not saying that I know everything, or that it will definitely work out. But can you think of a good reason not to let yourself have this? To see, maybe, where it goes?”

And, really, I couldn’t think of a damn one.

“You’re smarter than you let on,” I told her.

She smiled. “That I am.” She took another sip of wine and flexed her foot this way and that, admiring my handiwork. “You know,” she said vaguely, “you can tell Michael that you’re not straight.”

If I’d been drinking, I would have spit it all over both of us. As it was, I just sputtered.

“I-uh, what? I mean, no, I, Charity, I-”

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice we were playing the pronoun game?” Her eyes were surprisingly warm when they met mine. “Harry, it’s not our place to judge. God will do that, and I personally believe that He won’t condemn love, regardless of the form it takes. Michael feels the same way.”

I did _ not _ have tears in my eyes. It was the sputtering. It’s shocking to the system, you know.

“Maybe,” I said finally.

She shrugged. “Whenever you’re ready. Now, come on. Michael and the kids will be home soon, and I get the feeling that you won’t want to be here when they get back. Plus, you have to hide the cookies again.” 

* * *

Three days later, I knocked on the door of another one of John’s safehouses. It was one of my favorites, with thick hedges protecting us from prying eyes on all sides of the house. It was smaller than the others, but I thought that made it cozier, too.

Charity was right, I had realized in the days between our impromptu hangout. She was absolutely right. I liked John, all of the sides I’d seen of him so far, anyway, and it wasn’t like I was a helpless pawn in this situation. I was an adult, and more importantly a wizard. Why not let ourselves have this? Why not jump in headfirst?

John answered, his green eyes widening when he saw me. “Harry?”

I smirked. I was wearing a dark button-down, a pair of pressed jeans, and my least-scuffed pair of sneakers. My hair was combed for once, and the backpack I’d taken to bringing with me to these little meetings was slung over one of my shoulders. None of which, outside my obvious effort into my appearance, was out of the norm.

What I had in my hands, however, _ was. _

In one hand there was a bouquet of about two dozen dark red roses. Cliche, maybe, but the way John’s eyes softened and warmed when he saw them let me know I’d made the right choice. Mob boss or not, John was a good Italian boy who appreciated tradition.

In my other hand, wrapped with a thick black ribbon tied in an elaborate bow, was a copy of the Accords.

John grinned, reached up and hooked a hand around the back of my neck, and drew me down into an absolutely filthy open-mouthed kiss.

The new plan was going _very_ well.


End file.
